The stork on the table stirred uneasily. The sorcerer stroked it gently and said, “Sleep!” and the stork lay perfectly still again.
“Wait a minute,” said the old man. “We must keep this drop from falling off, and we must harden the point of the quill.”
He produced from a closet a metal box, and out of this he took a small glass tube, covered with frost. He held the drop of blood for a moment inside the tube, and then put the tube away in its box.
“Now,” said he, “the drop will not fall off.”
He went to the forge, and blowing up the coals with a pair of bellows, he held the point of the quill for a moment in the fire.
“Now,” said he, “it is as hard as a pin.”
The One-Armed Sorcerer plucked a feather from the stork
“Sir,” said I, “will you tell me what this is for?”
“To save the Ragpicker from herself,” said the sorcerer.